Pineapple a sign of hospitality for the locals

“What’s the first thing that you think of when you hear the word ‘pineapple?’” I asked.

Without taking a breath, George Heyward, former mayor of Bluffton on the Bay replied, “Hospitality.”

It was Thursday at twilight. The farmers market was slowly closing down, Tamela and Nick Maxim, Simone Griffeth and I were sitting outside of the Dispensary having a light libation. The remains of Roma crépes from the Créperie were on the table.

George happened by to say ‘hello’ in the middle of a conversation about pineapples and was immediately questioned.

We all agreed that slices of pineapple on squishy white bread with lots of mayonnaise had to be one of the best sandwiches ever.

Then the subject of pineapples lost out to a discussion of Simone’s upcoming film ‘Savannah’ that was having its premier on Hilton Head. She said that we probably wouldn’t recognize her with the red hair in her role as Sam Shepard’s wife.

No matter. It was on my absolutely ‘do’ list.

When I got home, Jeopardy was already on and with the first commercial, I went into the kitchen to put on the tea kettle.

There, on the counter, was my fresh pineapple, the very one from Costa Rica that had started me thinking about this tropical fruit that brings so many different memories to mind. This one had an identification tag hanging from it. That’s why I knew where it was from. Say ‘pineapple’ to me and I think ‘Hawaii’ and ‘Dole.’

And, I suspect, so do most people.

It was in Hawaii, in the late 1800s that pineapples were first commercially grown and the Dole family has been involved just about that long.

One morning ages ago, I was on my way to play bridge at Schofield Barracks and drove up Kunia Road from Ewa Beach past fields of sugar cane that would soon be burned off, stinking up the entire island of Oahu when the Kona winds blew.

Then, as my VW bus began its uphill climb, I saw fields of pineapple, row after row after row of knee high sword shaped plants. To call them leaves would be like calling a machete a feather.

Lined up behind a machine connected to a conveyer belt were the pickers.

They were covered from head to toe, impossible to tell whether they were male or female, kerchiefs tied under the chin were topped by coolie straw hats, long sleeves, gloves and from the waist down protected by slabs of rubber inner tubes.

I slowed down to watch.

One picker saw me, turned and gave me the universal finger salute. In the name of friendship, I returned the gesture. We both laughed and I drove on.

More than 40 years later, I still remember my encounter with that androgynous pineapple picker.

From decorating the Christmas ham with pineapple slices and a maraschino cherry, to adding crushed pineapple to shredded cabbage for a summertime slaw, this symbol of hospitality has always been welcome at my table.

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